Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  ‘Enrique?’ she said with a powerful voice. ‘Are you spying on us again?’

  Cámara edged his way out and showed his face in a ray of moonlight.

  ‘My name’s Max,’ he said. ‘I’m lost.’

  The woman took a couple of steps closer, bending down fearlessly to take a look at him. She read his expression, the look of exhaustion in his eyes.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said.

  Moments later, leading him by the hand, she walked down smooth steps to a patio and the door of a house nestling in a fold in the hillside. She pushed the door open and beckoned him inside.

  The first thing that Cámara saw was a naked male backside pointing up in the air as its owner knelt down and pushed his face hard to the tiled floor.

  ‘Bloody plectrum,’ said the man as he shuffled about, trying to peer underneath a chest of drawers at the side of the room. ‘I know I dropped it here somewhere.’

  Cámara glanced around: he was in a large, dusty room with ancient-looking sofas and armchairs scattered about. Sitting proudly on one of them was an electric guitar, the lead plugged into a small amplifier on the floor at the side. Brightly coloured sheets of cloth were draped over much of the furniture, and there was a sweet, dense, choking smell of incense hanging in the air. In one corner of the room was a large, scruffy dog with light brown curly hair, lying cosily on a sky-blue rug thrown in a heap next to what looked like a fridge. The animal raised an eyebrow and lifted its ears slightly on Cámara’s entrance, but kept its chin resting firmly on its front paws, mildly interested but essentially unconcerned by this new arrival.

  ‘Bloody thing,’ said the man on the floor, still searching. ‘Bet the dog’s eaten it.’

  The dog seemed to understand it was being blamed and turned its head, closing its eyes nonchalantly and going back to sleep.

  The woman closed the door behind her. Cámara noticed small lamps standing in niches in the walls; they gave off a warm, comforting glow. He had the sense that the entire place had been built by the people living in it.

  The woman reached for a cloth from one of the armchairs and wrapped it around her nakedness.

  ‘Jimmy,’ she said, taking a second cloth and throwing it loosely over his backside. ‘We’ve got a visitor.’

  At the sound of her voice, the man slowly lifted his head and, with his haunches still high in the air, turned his head to look.

  ‘Oh,’ he said with a surprised grin. ‘I thought you were having me on for a minute.’

  He turned, sat on the ground, wrapped the cloth around his waist and stood up. His hair was grey and hung long over his shoulders. His face was fleshy and sunburnt, with a long thick nose jutting down from bright, friendly eyes. A pointed grey beard cascaded from his chin, almost touching his chest. Halfway down it was tied by a bright yellow rubber band.

  ‘I was going to do some recording,’ said the man almost apologetically. ‘It’s always a good time, when there’s a full moon. The energy’s different, makes for a clearer sound.’

  ‘Jimmy, this is Max,’ said the woman. ‘He’s lost.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Jimmy. ‘Introductions.’

  He thrust out a paw-like, rough-skinned hand.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘Anyone who’s lost is welcome here. We specialise in them.’

  Cámara shook his hand gratefully, yet fear still coursed through him.

  ‘I’m Max,’ he said. ‘And …’

  ‘You’ve already met Estrella,’ Jimmy said, smiling to the woman. ‘It’s a good job she found you.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Cámara. ‘I’m a policeman …’

  From the depth of his belly, Jimmy suddenly let out a long, loud and deep laugh. And with a cackling chorus, Estrella quickly joined in.

  ‘Policeman?’ Jimmy bellowed, his face reddening with mirth. ‘That’s a good one.’

  ‘But …’ Cámara began.

  ‘There’s no way you’re a policeman. No policeman looks like that.’

  Cámara glanced down at himself: his clothes were torn, trousers almost shredded at the knees, and he was streaked with dried blood.

  ‘If you’re a policeman,’ Jimmy continued, ‘where’s your gun?’

  ‘I don’t have …’ Cámara went to reach into his pocket to get his ID, then let his hand drop. Was it worth it? Besides, some instinct told him he might be more welcome here if he went along with this.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. Jimmy’s laughter was beginning to die down. Estrella was still giggling, but had walked to a kitchen area through a side door, pushing a bead curtain aside which was still rattling in her wake.

  ‘Listen,’ said Cámara again. ‘I don’t want to scare you, but I’ve been chased by armed men.’

  ‘Armed men?’ Jimmy’s face was more serious of a sudden, yet there was still a hint of doubt in his eyes.

  ‘Have you got a phone?’ Cámara said.

  The laughter began to creep back into Jimmy’s face.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ he called to Estrella. ‘He wants a phone.’

  ‘Ooh!’ called Estrella in a high voice. ‘Well, he’s not going to have any luck here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Policeman,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Please, Max,’ insisted Cámara.

  ‘Well, Max, we’re off the grid here. That’s the way it is and that’s the way we like it. No mains electricity, no water, no phone cables, not even a mobile signal. We try our best to live as nature intended.’

  He pulled at the cloth wrapped around his waist and grinned.

  ‘But we make some allowance for the occasional visitor, like yourself. Don’t want to upset anyone.’

  ‘These men,’ Cámara said, exasperation creeping into his voice. ‘They’ve been trying to shoot me.’

  Jimmy sat down on one of the sofas, his legs stretched open. Then he realised he was revealing himself and quickly covered his groin with a loose corner of cloth.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I was going to say you looked more like a man on the run than a pol—’

  His voice was interrupted by a bullet crashing through the window and slamming into the wall on the far side. Had Jimmy still been standing, his head would have been caught in its trajectory. Cámara fell to the floor.

  ‘Get down!’ he screamed. ‘For God’s sake get down!’

  To his amazement, however, Jimmy calmly got up out of the sofa, cast a look of disgust at the shattered rendering on the wall where the bullet had impacted, and leaned down to open a drawer in a nearby chest. Then, with no sense of rush or urgency, he lifted out an Uzi sub-machine gun and flicked off the safety catch at the side.

  From the floor, Cámara stared up in astonishment and disbelief. Jimmy smiled down at him.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said with a steady voice. ‘But don’t worry – the magazine’s full. I checked only this morning. Had a feeling I was going to need it today.’

  He stepped over Cámara’s prostrate body, and reached for the door.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Cámara, but Jimmy had already turned the handle and was stepping outside. Then, taking a couple more paces and checking that he wasn’t too close to the house, he got his bearings, gauged the spot from where the bullet had been fired, and pointed the Uzi with both hands, letting off a short angry burst of fire that illuminated his face with peppery light in the darkness. Cartridges pelted the stones by his naked feet as they fell, scattering in all directions, faint wisps of smoke drifting from them as they cooled on the ground. One fell close to Cámara’s nose as he stared open-eyed at Jimmy.

  The magazine was emptied, the firing stopped, and Jimmy’s face was engulfed in darkness again. He stepped back to the house, closed the door behind him and returned to the drawer to deposit the machine gun.

  ‘Right,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I reckon that should see them off.’

  Gingerly, Cámara lifted himself from the floor.

  ‘Do you …’ he stammered. ‘Do you know who they are?’

/>   ‘Of course,’ grinned Jimmy. ‘That’s Dorin and Bogdan. Don’t worry about them. They’re a couple of cowards. Won’t be troubling us any more tonight.’

  THIRTY

  Cámara got to his feet and fell into one of the armchairs. Jimmy grinned at him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Only they would shoot through the window like that. And they know there are guns everywhere in this place. If they did try again they’d be shot to pieces. You ever used a gun?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ Cámara nodded.

  ‘Right, well, in the pocket of your chair, under the arm next to the remote control, there’s a Glock.’

  Cámara leaned down and felt the smooth steel of the pistol between his fingers.

  ‘If they give us any more trouble,’ continued Jimmy, ‘use that. But I tell you, there’s no chance of that. They’ll be off home now.’

  Cámara wanted to ask questions, but exhaustion and shock got the better of him and he sank deep into the chair. Jimmy took a small wooden box from a ledge and sat down with it on his knee. Then he opened it, pulled out a cigarette paper and began the process of making a joint, mixing the tobacco and marihuana in the palm of his hand, then placing the paper over it and turning both hands over before squeezing it all together, rolling and licking it closed. An initialled Zippo lighter let off a tall shot of flame, which he used to light it, drawing hard and quickly filling the room with sweet, clammy smoke.

  ‘Ah,’ he sighed with a deep voice of satisfaction. Then he passed the joint over to Cámara.

  Cámara hadn’t smoked marihuana for months. In the not-too-distant past it had been a regular habit of his, gratefully consuming the home-grown that his grandfather, Hilario, grew for him in pot plants on the back patio, trying to ensure that his wayward, law-enforcing grandson kept one foot at least in what he saw as the ‘real’ world – the world of ordinary law-breaking lives far removed from the artificial conformity of the police. The Cámaras were anarchists, Hilario insisted, and if one of them had betrayed this tradition by actually becoming an agent of the State, then the least he, Hilario, could do was throw out a rope on to which his errant grandson could cling. That rope came in the form of the home-grown, dutifully nurtured and watered, much as a priest might take care over the sacred wine. And Cámara had smoked it willingly, as much to dull the strains of being a murder detective as to forget painful memories – not least the killing of his own sister when he was still a child – that lingered in his heart.

  Hilario had died years before and the supply of home-grown had quickly dried up, or been thrown away eventually – Cámara felt less and less need for it. Yet now, here was a man suddenly appearing and saving his life, someone who, in his own way, reminded him a little of Hilario – fearless, eccentric, master of his own domain – and he was offering him the same dose of green weed which had been such a part of his previous life. He had vowed never to touch the stuff again, but right now, after a long and frankly complicated day, he wanted nothing more.

  He leaned over in his chair, thrust his hand out, took the joint from Jimmy and brought it to his lips. The smoke ran hot and sharp down his throat. He felt the kick in his lungs, the rush to his head, then the slow treacly sensation begin to flow through his limbs.

  ‘See,’ said Jimmy, his smile broadening. ‘Told you you weren’t a policeman.’

  Cámara threw him a glance.

  ‘Although there’s something I’m not sure about you,’ Jimmy continued. ‘I reckon you’re a spy.’

  It was Cámara’s turn to laugh.

  ‘Or a master criminal on the run,’ said Jimmy. ‘You really do look a bit of a mess. Whatever you did, you certainly pissed off Dorin and Bogdan.’

  Cámara nodded, and the nodding seemed to continue for a long time, like the swinging pendulum of a clock.

  ‘I’ll have to find out more about those two.’ He paused. ‘Eventually.’

  ‘Time for that later,’ said Jimmy. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps.’

  Cámara looked around at the room, which he felt he was sinking in deeper and deeper.

  ‘There’s a spare bed,’ said Jimmy. ‘And you’re welcome. Especially if you know how to use a gun.’

  He got up to walk to the kitchen. Cámara took another draw on the joint.

  ‘I love guns,’ said Jimmy.

  Cámara wasn’t sure if he had fallen asleep, but moments later he was sitting at a small table in the kitchen with plates of food being served: salad, a simple tortilla and some bread. In the middle was an unlabelled bottle of thick green olive oil.

  ‘We’re almost self-sufficient,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘These eggs are fresh from this morning,’ said Estrella, who had clearly been busy all this time preparing the meal. ‘Jimmy collected them just after breakfast.’

  A glass of wine was placed in front of him. It looked very much like the home-made stuff Vicente had offered at lunchtime, and a shudder went through Cámara at the thought, yet as he brought it to his lips he was relieved to find it was much more drinkable, if not quite the kind of thing you would pay money for.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ he said as the wine warmed through him and brought him back to life. ‘Jimmy?’

  Estrella giggled.

  ‘Jaime,’ explained Jimmy. ‘But I was in a rock band when I was young and everyone called me Jimmy. The name stuck.’

  Cámara took a mouthful of tortilla. It was deep yellow and richly flavoured; for a moment he was cast back to his family kitchen, his mother preparing food while he sat at the table and watched in fascination. For the past years he had been eating supermarket eggs that tasted nothing like this; he had even forgotten what the real taste of eggs was. Now here he was in the middle of some lost valley in the sierra, with people he didn’t know, having been shot at and almost killed, half-stoned from the joint, eating simple, delicious, home-produced and home-made food. It was as if this place, these people, evoked some childlike pleasure, a sense of fun and play that he felt he had lost in recent years. Hilario had done his best to keep him in touch with that side of himself. But Hilario had died, and Cámara had been drifting ever since, as though unable to locate the sane, healthy silliness within him that acted as a bulwark against all the rest, all the shit. There was almost a feeling of coming home.

  ‘Is there just the two of you?’ he asked.

  ‘Now,’ said Estrella. ‘There have been more of us in the past.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘A couple. They’ve left home.’

  ‘There used to be quite a community of us, years back,’ said Jimmy. Estrella smiled at him.

  ‘I went down to Seville one day to learn flamenco guitar,’ he continued. ‘And when I came back a couple of months later, four women had moved into the house.’

  He grinned, a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

  ‘So, well, I just had to get on with it,’ he said. ‘Four wives. It was fun.’

  He poured more wine into their glasses.

  ‘Two of them were lesbians,’ he continued. Then he stared Cámara in the eye.

  ‘But even lesbians need a night off every now and again.’

  He guffawed and Cámara laughed with him, casting a look in Estrella’s direction. But she was smiling as well.

  ‘The great thing about having so many wives,’ Jimmy said, ‘is that it’s brilliant for the kids. Every time they fell over and banged their knee, there was a mother close at hand to pick them up and kiss them better. Worked really well.’

  ‘So what happened to them, the other women?’ said Cámara.

  ‘Oh,’ said Estrella, ‘they left eventually.’

  ‘The lesbians set up together in their own place,’ said Jimmy. ‘The other one went travelling. We still hear from them.’

  Cámara carried on eating: the food really was delicious.

  ‘Is that all right for you?’ asked Estrella.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘We fertilise everything ourselves,’ said Jimmy. ‘There
’s a thunder box out in the garden. Makes excellent manure.’

  Cámara stared questioningly at the piece of lettuce on the end of his fork.

  ‘Should have mentioned that at the start,’ said Jimmy. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’

  Dinner ended and they passed through to a smaller living room on the other side of the house. Jimmy lit a fire: the air grew colder up in the mountains at night. After a few minutes, Estrella reappeared wearing a Moroccan djellaba with the hood pulled up over her head. In her hands was a pile of men’s clothes.

  ‘Jimmy never wears these,’ she said. ‘You might want something else to put on in the morning.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ insisted Jimmy. ‘I don’t need them.’

  ‘You got far to go?’ asked Estrella.

  Cámara shrugged. Thoughts about the next day were far from his mind.

  ‘I can give you a lift to the village after breakfast if you like,’ said Jimmy.

  Cámara must have nodded, for the matter appeared settled.

  They sat around the fire for what felt like a long time, watching the flames begin to rise and consume the firewood, reach a blazing peak and then gradually die down again to a steady, tranquil glow. Jimmy rolled another joint and they smoked in hazy silence, their eyes droopy and unfocused, never wandering from the hearth.

  There was something essentially happy and balanced about this place, he felt. Yes, the house appeared to have a small arsenal of its own – for reasons he had yet to ascertain – yet it felt good, welcoming, gentle and at peace with itself. He could not help but contrast it with the sensation over in the other valley, at Sunset and Enrique’s house. Much of the countryside there was beautiful, with views down to the coast, yet the feeling had been one of tension, conflict and unhappiness. This side of the valley – and he had yet to see it in daylight – was like another world, somewhere he was much more at ease, and could imagine himself spending considerable time. At some point, when he got a chance, he would look on a map to see exactly where he was: running away over the mountains in the darkness meant that he had quite lost his bearings.

  He heard a riffling of playing cards nearby and glanced over to see.